Bankrupt
by TheOneThatGotAway99
Summary: No one would expect to be sucker bashed-in-the-head-with-the-butt-of-a-gun-and-held-hostage-by-gunpoint-during-a-bank-robbery while standing in line at the bank, bickering with one's partner about the use of ATM machines. "Drop the gun!" Travis demands sharply. "Now!" [rated for blood and one bad word; Wes whump! No slash] the 200th Common Law fanfic here! Yay!


**Bankrupt**

"Drop the gun!" Wes watches as Travis points his gun in Wes's general direction. His finger is off the trigger, yet Wes still knows there is a full clip loaded, as well as a round in the chamber. He also knows that Travis isn't going to actually shoot him, but his partner's gun is currently the only thing his less-than-cooperative mind will focus on, since he can't see the gun that is at the moment being pressed to the side of his head. "Now!" Travis demands sharply.

As stated, Wes knows Travis won't _actually_ shoot him, especially since it is only aimed in his _general_ direction. It is actually aimed at the guy holding Wes. Or rather, the guy holding the gun. Gun and Wes. Gun on Wes. Ugh, thinking is getting difficult. He chalks it up to a combination of being kept in an almost-choke hold, limiting his oxygen intake by the six foot-something with beefy arms, as well as the pistol whip he received mere moments earlier by said six foot-something. Which, really, is the only reason he's in this mess at all. No one would expect to be sucker punched while standing in line at the bank, bickering with one's partner about the pros and cons of using ATM machines. Or, in Wes's case, sucker bashed-in-the-head-with-the-butt-of-a-gun-and-held-hostage-by-gunpoint-during-a-bank-robbery. So, yeah, he definitely blames those two factors for his slightly disoriented state. Glancing at the other patrons of the bank cowering behind tables and such on the floor, he stubbornly stamps down on the thought 'why is it always me?' Better it be him, a cop, than some innocent civilian.

"Not a chance, cop! You drop yours or I drop _him_!" To emphasis his point, the would-be bank robber presses the barrel of the gun harder against Wes's right temple. Wes ignores the gun and instead focuses on seeing through the spots in his vision and clearing the clouds from his thoughts. Self-preservation is screaming at him not to say anything.

"But, if I put my gun down, what's to stop you from shooting him anyway?" Travis logics out, a look of mock contemplation on his face as though he is trying to think of an answer to that question.

"And if you don't, what's ta stop me from shootin' both of you?!" the would-be robber bellows back at Travis. Right next to Wes's ear. Bleck, this guy's breath _stinks_. Not that his body odor was any better.

"Uhhh. . . My gun?" Travis states, as though it was obvious. Which, really, it is.

Holy. . . Yeah, self-preservation be damned, he is butting in.

"Oh my God. Travis, would you just put the gun down already?"

"Listen to your boyfriend, pretty boy." Wes has to stop himself from rolling his eyes so as not to aggravate his building headache.

Travis ignores the would-be robber all together. "Nah, I think I'm going to keep it. I just need you to move to the left a little and I can shoot him in the head."

"My left or your left?"

"Yours."

Suppressing a smirk, he tilts towards the left. "Woah! Wait! What?!" The would-be robber shoves Wes back to the right, nearly unbalancing himself in the process.

Just as planned, this gives Wes the perfect opening to hook his leg behind the would-be robber's, sending the man to the ground, while simultaneously snaking out of the almost-choke hold. As the man falls, twisting around to land on his ass instead of his face, Wes grabs the hand holding the gun with both of his, pointing the flailing limb straight up as a single shot fires into the ceiling. He manages to pries the firearm out of the slacking grasp as the man sprawls across the marble floor. Pointing the would-be robber's gun at the would-be robber himself, Wes takes a few cautious steps back to cover his partner as Travis holsters his pistol and pulls out his cuffs.

"You a'right Wes?"

"I've got the start of a killer headache, but all in all, yeah, I'm pretty good."

"Good. You know how I hate having to break-in a new partner," Travis quips as he makes the would-be robber roll over to lie on his stomach.

Wes makes a face at Travis's back, before growing serious again. "You good?"

"Yeah, I got him. No worries." As if the _click clicking_ of the cuffs locking that follows isn't answer enough. "Go sit down. Call it in. I got this handled."

Wes nearly collapses into a black leather couch just to the side, still within view of his partner reading the restrained perp his Miranda rights. Keeping one hand on the gun, ready to spring into action in a moment's notice should the perp try anything, Wes used his cell phone to call it in. Failed bank robbery, two cops on scene, single shot fired, suspect in custody, no casualties, send a squad car for transport.

It is only as he is sliding his phone back into his pants pocket that Wes notices the blood slowly trailing down the left side of his head. Of course, the only _reason_ he notices is because just then a fat, red drop lands on the back of his hand. He pulls a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, wading it up and pressing it against the small gash above his left temple. He will have to clean up the blood some before the squad car came and the uniforms call an ambulance on him. That is the last thing he needs right now. Four ibuprofen and a stiff drink, sure. Ambulance? Not so much.

Folding the handkerchief over and giving his forehead a final wipe to remove the most of the evidence, Wes closes his eyes and lays his aching head on the back of the couch. A moment later, Travis drops onto the couch beside him with a huffing sigh.

"How you doing, partner?"

Glancing over at his partner, Wes let out his own sigh. "Honestly, the worst part of it all was the guy's BO. He's obviously never heard of deodorant."

Travis snorts, corners of his lips twitching in amusement. Wes suppresses his own grin.

"Well," Travis drawls. "That and the fact that we still have no cash to buy lunch."

Letting out a startled chuckle, Wes nods slowly, trying not to aggravate his headache. "Yeah, there is that."

* * *

_Author's Notes: Well, despite the less than fantastic reception of my first Common Law fic, I wrote this, because honestly I don't care. :D I'm not writing it for people, I'm writing it for me. I would have had this finished Sunday, but I spent Saturday evening fixing tensing (WHY DO ALL MY COMMON LAW FAN FICS COME OUT IN PRESENT TENSE?!) then spent the rest of the weekend down with food poisoning. Now after giving you that lovely mental image, it's time to celebrate! Why, you ask? Because, dear imagined readers, this is officially the 200__th__ Common Law fan fiction here on ffdotnet! Yay! I have completed my goal! Mind you, I only wrote two of those two hundred. I'm just glad this fandom is still growing, if only some and slowly. Well, that's all from me. Review if you want. If not then my readers will just remain imaginary. But since I talk to myself as though talking to an audience, I'm kind of used to it by now. xD_

_Disclaimer: If I owned Common Law, I wouldn't be pushing so hard for the fandom to live so I won't have to give up on the characters._

_P.S. I really should be doing homework right now, but I just couldn't resist posting this. Love ya all!_

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


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